


Lemons

by messageredacted



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:19:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messageredacted/pseuds/messageredacted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The flat is an entirely new landscape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lemons

**Author's Note:**

> Written for thegameison_sh prompt: New
> 
> Originally written on 1 February 2011.

The sound of water pouring into the teacup changes as it nears the top. Sherlock stops pouring and sets the kettle back down, trying to ignore John’s worried hovering by the doorway. He touches the tips of his fingers to the rim of the teacup, feeling the hot steam curl up into his palm, and allows himself to feel a hint of smug pride.

“The lemon’s in the fridge,” John says, stepping behind Sherlock as if he’s going to get it.

“I can get it,” Sherlock says.

John stops. “I just thought you might need help, since you’ve never made tea for anyone before,” he says wryly.

“I’ve made tea,” Sherlock says. “I haven’t always had flatmates to do it for me.” He pivots a perfect ninety degree turn, calculating where the table is, then steps forward. Two steps bring him to the end of the table, and then he pivots to the left. One more step brings him to the fridge.

“If I’m out, you always shout for Mrs. Hudson rather than make it yourself,” John says.

Sherlock misjudges and his knuckles bump the side of the fridge, missing the handle. He feels his way across the pebbled surface of the fridge until he finds the handle.

“Just because I’m capable doesn’t mean I want to,” he says to cover his mistake, although he knows John saw him. He pulls open the fridge and then pauses. John always keeps a dish of cut lemons on the top shelf, to the right. His hand finds it unerringly. Thank heavens for John’s routines. Sherlock closes the fridge and turns one hundred and eighty degrees.

He steps forward, holding the lemons in one hand and letting his other hand brush the top of the table. Since the explosion, he has had to relearn the entire flat. He has to remember where he puts things so that he can find them again. It’s a strange landscape, familiar and yet new at the same time. If it weren’t permanent, he might even consider this a pleasing challenge.

The sleeve of his dressing gown catches on the chair and the resultant jerk sends the dish of lemons sailing out of his hand. He hears it crash to the floor.

“Shit,” he says, lowering himself to his knees.

“I can get it, Sherlock,” John says, dropping down as well.

A month ago he’d have let John clean up the whole thing, but this is his challenge, damn it. He’s not going to be bested by a dish of lemons. He sweeps his hands over the floor, finding a slippery triangle of lemon. There had been six in the dish, and the crash of the dish on the floor hadn’t been the noise of it shattering into a million pieces, merely three or four.

He locates two more slices and one lemony half of the dish before John says “I have the rest. That’s everything. Here, give them to me and I’ll bin them.”

Sherlock debates for a second whether he has salvaged enough of his pride, then reaches out and deposits the lemons and ceramic into John’s outstretched hands without having to search for them. John’s noise of surprise is enough to make him feel smug again.

John gets to his feet. Sherlock gets to his own feet as well, wiping his wet hands on his dressing gown. He reaches out for the counter to orient himself but it isn’t there.

For some reason, the loss of the counter paralyzes him. Here he is, in the tiny kitchen of the flat, a space so small that it feels crowded with two people in it. But now the expanse of kitchen floor could be infinite for all that he can find his way back to safety. He doesn’t want to grope his way across the room, hands out in front of himself as if he were… Well.

“Sherlock?” John says. Sherlock turns to face him. John must be standing next to the bin. His voice had echoed slightly off the glass doors that lead out of the kitchen. If he’s there, the counter with the teacups is to his right. Sherlock turns slightly and takes two confident steps across the kitchen to the counter. He rests his hands on the counter and feels the warmth from the teacups soak up into his palms.

“Sugar?” he says.


End file.
